The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls: Stanza 1 Summary The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls Get out the microscope, because we’re going through this poem line-by-line. Lines 1-2 The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: Wait, what? The first line doesn't seem to make sense at first. How can "splendour," which is intangible (something you can't touch), "fall"? "Splendour" seems to mean something a bit different here, though, like sunlight. Maybe we're supposed to imagine streams of light coming through between clouds. So if this bright light is "fall[ing]" against the "castle walls," it must be coming in at an angle… so it must be sunrise or sunset. Which do you think it is? (Let's bear this question in mind later in the poem—there might be more clues.) The sunlight, or "splendour," is streaming down and "falling" against the walls of a castle and against the snow-capped tops of mountains. Sounds like the speaker is in a valley somewhere, looking across at a castle and some snowy mountains.

But these aren't just any mountains—they are "old in story," which means that many tales have been written about them. (Historical Note! Tennyson visited Ireland in 1848, just before writing "Splendour Falls." His inspiration was almost certainly a visit to a place in the mountains near Killarney called the "Eagle's Nest.") There's a steady rhythm as we read this—the rhythm, or meter , is "iambic tetrameter." (Check out the " Form and Meter " section for more about what that means.) The first line of this poem has two words that rhyme within the line: "falls" and "walls." That's called internal rhyme . Again, you should check out "Form and Meter" to learn more. Lines 3-4 The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Now we're told that the sunlight is streaming across lakes. The speaker says that the light "shakes." Weird, right? What would make light appear to "shake"? Maybe the water on the surface of the lakes is moving, causing the light to shimmer and "shake"? Or maybe the light is coming through tree branches that are moving in the wind?

What do you think? The repetition of the "L" sound at the beginning of "long," "light," and "lakes" is called alliteration —check out the " Sound Check " section for more about the sound effects here. We're given another detail about the scenery: there's a waterfall, or "cataract," which is probably making a lot of noise as it falls, since the speaker calls it "wild." The word "leaps" seems like a weird choice of words, and in combination with that word "wild," it seems like the waterfall is some kind of wild animal, "leaping" down the mountainside. Metaphor alert! Line 3 has more internal rhyme ("shakes" and "lakes"), and line 4 introduces the first end rhyme of the poem—"glory" rhymes with "story" (line 2). Check out " Form and Mete r" to learn more about the rhyme scheme . Lines 5-6 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Suddenly we're not alone anymore! Or are we?

A bugle (a kind of horn like a trumpet) is blown, and the notes echo across the valley and then fade, or "die," away. The repetition of the word "dying" seems to imitate the echoes that the speaker is describing. The speaker addresses the bugle directly, instead of addressing the person who is blowing it. Ladies and gentlemen, it's a textbook example of a poetic tool called apostrophe —Shmoop on over to the " Symbols " section to learn more about that. The Splendour Falls by Alfred Lord Tennyson - Famous poems, famous poets. - All Poetry RogerPack69 : Are we allowed to say, P.U? Grant G : The man can leave one wondering and wondering Beautiful style which can only come from trying bobanonymous : I like it but Tennyson stole the idea from me. Sushmita90 : Classic!!....love it Peyton Glover : I like it.. classic Lisa Wynn : I like it--always Lisa Wynn : what a beautiful poem--- Kiln2hrces : Wow just wowed me great work Flowerspring86 : Inspired. patrick carey5 : Classic poem from a classic poet!

Karla Az : Amazing An amazing poem to admire. Ryan McKenzie : Clever job Timeless a true piece of art Arjun96228 : Great Admire the Awesomeness in it! lashawnDockery : Inspired me This is so deep i almost felt like it was written just for me John Andrew : Liked it! For me, 'our echoes roll from soul to soul & grow forever & forever' is a truly immortal line, eclipsing the rest of the poem carolcut : Tennysons descriptions of those little moments are like those peaceful moments during a snowstorm. When the snow sparkles in the sun. Sublime khayelihle : Great Title / intro is: title is good Something to work on is: every thing is perfect Phi. : Clever job. Loved the poem. Think I'll forward it to the FDA Patrick J Fealy : Lovely. i first heard this poem not knowing it was Tennyson, during a performance of Britten's 'Serenade for Tenor horn and strings'. it starts the song cycle out accompanied by french horn and strings. Sadashivan Nair : Amazing Geeta R. Menon : Fabulous poem!

I have these lines by-heart - 'O hark ,O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going! Tennyson's verses are always echoing in my ears with a superb rhythm. Arunachala Karan : Classic The Splendor Falls - Poems | Academy of American Poets Academy of American Poets The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets. For over three generations, the Academy has connected millions of people to great poetry through programs such as National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world; Poets.org, the Academy’s popular website; American Poets, a biannual literary journal; and an annual series of poetry readings and special events. Since its founding, the Academy has awarded more money to poets than any other organization. browse poems & poets sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox sign up Pirate Story by Robert Louis Stevenson Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson Loneliness by Trumbull Stickney read this poet's poems Born on August 6, 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, Alfred Tennyson is one of the most well-loved Victorian poets.

Tennyson, the fourth of twelve children, showed an early talent for writing. At the age of twelve he wrote a 6,000-line epic poem. His father, the Reverend George Tennyson, tutored his sons in classical and modern languages. In the 1820s, however, Tennyson's father began to suffer frequent mental breakdowns that were exacerbated by alcoholism. One of Tennyson's brothers had violent quarrels with his father, a second was later confined to an insane asylum, and another became an opium addict. Tennyson escaped home in 1827 to attend Trinity College, Cambridge. In that same year, he and his brother Charles published Poems by Two Brothers. Although the poems in the book were mostly juvenilia, they attracted the attention of the "Apostles," an undergraduate literary club led by Arthur Hallam. The "Apostles" provided Tennyson, who was tremendously shy, with much needed friendship and confidence as a poet. Hallam and Tennyson became the best of friends; they toured Europe together in 1830 and again in 1832.

Hallam's sudden death in 1833 greatly affected the young poet. The long elegy In Memoriam and many of Tennyson's other poems are tributes to Hallam. In 1830, Tennyson published Poems, Chiefly Lyrical and in 1832 he published a second volume entitled simply Poems. Some reviewers condemned these books as "affected" and "obscure." Tennyson, stung by the reviews, would not publish another book for nine years. In 1836, he became engaged to Emily Sellwood. When he lost his inheritance on a bad investment in 1840, Sellwood's family called off the engagement. In 1842, however, Tennyson's Poems in two volumes was a tremendous critical and popular success. In 1850, with the publication of In Memoriam, Tennyson became one of Britain's most popular poets. He was selected Poet Laureate in succession to Wordsworth . In that same year, he married Emily Sellwood. They had two sons, Hallam and Lionel.

At the age of 41, Tennyson had established himself as the most popular poet of the Victorian era. The money from his poetry (at times exceeding 10,000 pounds per year) allowed him to purchase a house in the country and to write in relative seclusion. His appearance—a large and bearded man, he regularly wore a cloak and a broad brimmed hat—enhanced his notoriety. He read his poetry with a booming voice, often compared to that of Dylan Thomas . In 1859, Tennyson published the first poems of Idylls of the Kings, which sold more than 10,000 copies in one month. In 1884, he accepted a peerage, becoming Alfred Lord Tennyson. Tennyson died on October 6, 1892, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

The Princess (poem) - Wikiquote The Princess (poem) Jump to: navigation , search 'A prince I was' - one of Charles Howard Johnson 's illustrations for the 1890 edition The Princess is a serio-comic blank verse narrative poem , written by Alfred Tennyson , published in 1847. The poem tells the story of an heroic princess who forswears the world of men and founds a women's university where men are forbidden to enter. The prince to whom she was betrothed in infancy enters the university with two friends, disguised as women students. They are discovered and flee, but eventually they fight a battle for the princess's hand. They lose and are wounded, but the women nurse the men back to health. Eventually the princess returns the prince's love. Contents And one said smiling 'Pretty were the sight If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. Stanza 8, line 139. A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she.

Stanza 9, line 153. As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears. Song: As Through the Land, l. 1-5. And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever... Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Song: Sweet and Low, stanza 1. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! Blow, bugle! answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying. Line 352. O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying. Line 360. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Song: The Splendor Falls, stanza 1. There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun. Line 1. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Song: Tears, Idle Tears, stanza 1, line 21. Unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square. Line 33. Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love,— Deep as first love, and wild with all regret.

Oh death in life, the days that are no more! Line 36. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Song: The Splendor Falls, stanza 3. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Song: Tears, Idle Tears, stanza 4, line 36. O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. Song: O Swallow, stanza 1. Man is the hunter; woman is his game: The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; They love us for it, and we ride them down. Lines 147-150.

Man for the field and woman for the hearth: Man for the sword and for the needle she: Man with the head and woman with the heart: Man to command and woman to obey; All else confusion. Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more. Song: Ask Me No More, stanza 3. Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. Song: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, stanza 1. Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Song: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, stanza 3. Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Lines 203-207. Like perfect music unto noble words. Line 270. With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho’ he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay. Lines 308-311. God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — Some sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made. Some patient force to change them when we will, Some civic manhood firm against the crowd. Lines 51-57. Victorian Songs Victorian Songs “‘Let some one sing to vs, lightlier move The minvtes fledged with mvsic’.” TENNYSON University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. Some editions of the book have a two-page Editor’s Note before the Contents, acknowledging the “publishers and authors who have given permission for the use of many of the songs included in this volume”. It has been omitted from this e-text. vii Where are the songs I used to know?

Christina Rossetti. ix CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK (1826-1887). Too Late HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) (1809-1885). The Brookside PROCTER, B. W. (BARRY CORNWALL) (1787-1874). The Poet’s Song to his Wife xiii SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837). A Match Listen—Songs thou ’lt hear Through the wide world ringing. Barry Cornwall. “A cup for hope!” she said Christina G. Rossetti A little shadow makes the sunrise sad Mortimer Collins A little while a little love Dante Gabriel Rossetti A thousand voices fill my ears F. W. Bourdillon Across the grass I see her pass Austin Dobson Ah, what avails the sceptered race!

Walter Savage Landor All glorious as the Rainbow’s birth Gerald Massey All through the sultry hours of June Mortimer Collins Along the garden ways just now Arthur O’Shaughnessy As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl Frederick Locker-Lampson As I came round the harbor buoy Jean Ingelow Awake!—The starry midnight Hour B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Back flies my soul to other years Joseph Skipsey Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet Thomas Ashe Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas Dinah Maria Mulock Craik Drink, and fill the night with mirth! B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Every day a Pilgrim, blindfold Hamilton Aïdé Fast falls the snow, O lady mine Mortimer Collins First the fine, faint, dreamy motion Norman Gale Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow Alfred Domett How many times do I love thee, dear?

Thomas Lovell Beddoes I bring a garland for your head Edmund Gosse I had a Message to send her Adelaide Anne Procter I have been here before Dante Gabriel Rossetti I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover Jean Ingelow I looked and saw your eyes Dante Gabriel Rossetti I made another garden, yea Arthur O’Shaughnessy I sat beside the streamlet Hamilton Aïdé I wandered by the brook-side Lord Houghton I walked in the lonesome evening William Allingham If I could choose my paradise Thomas Ashe If love were what the rose is Algernon Charles Swinburne If there were dreams to sell Thomas Lovell Beddoes I ’m sitting on the stile, Mary Lady Dufferin In Clementina’s artless mien Walter Savage Landor In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours Alfred Tennyson It was not in the winter Thomas Hood I ’ve been roaming! I ’ve been roaming! George Darley King Death was a rare old fellow! B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Kissing her hair I sat against her feet. Algernon Charles Swinburne Lady!

in this night of June Alfred Austin Last time I parted from my Dear William Bell Scott Let us wreathe the mighty cup Michael Field Little dimples so sweet and soft J. Ashby Sterry Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady’s ear Sir Edwin Arnold Mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love J. Ashby Sterry Mother, I can not mind my wheel Walter Savage Landor My fairest child, I have no song to give you Charles Kingsley My goblet’s golden lips are dry Thomas Lovell Beddoes My love, on a fair May morning Thomas Ashe My roses blossom the whole year round William Cox Bennett O for the look of those pure gray eyes J. Ashby Sterry O happy buds of violet! Mortimer Collins “O Heart, my heart!” she said, and heard Dinah Maria Mulock Craik O lady, leave thy silken thread Thomas Hood O lips that mine have grown into Algernon Charles Swinburne O Love is like the roses Robert Buchanan O May, thou art a merry time George Darley O roses for the flush of youth Christina G. Rossetti O spirit of the Summertime! William Allingham O ye tears! O ye tears!

that have long refused to flow Charles Mackay Often I have heard it said Walter Savage Landor Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green Charles Dickens Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear William Allingham Oh! let me dream of happy days gone by Hamilton Aïdé Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best! William Allingham “Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home” Charles Kingsley One lovely name adorns my song Walter Savage Landor Peace! what can tears avail? B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Seated one day at the Organ Adelaide Anne Procter Seek not the tree of silkiest bark Aubrey de Vere She was not fair, nor full of grace B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) She ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl Thomas Hood Sit down, sad soul, and count B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) Sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! Robert Buchanan Sleep! the bird is in its nest William Cox Bennett Strew not earth with empty stars Thomas Lovell Beddoes Sweet and low, sweet and low Alfred Tennyson Sweet is childhood—childhood ’s over Jean Ingelow Sweet mouth!

O let me take Alfred Domett Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean Alfred Tennyson Terrace and lawn are white with frost Mortimer Collins Thank Heaven, Ianthe, once again Walter Savage Landor The fault is not mine if I love you too much Walter Savage Landor The ladies of St. James’s Austin Dobson The night has a thousand eyes F. W. Bourdillon The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) The splendour falls on castle walls Alfred Tennyson The stars are with the voyager Thomas Hood The streams that wind amid the hills George Darley The Sun came through the frosty mist Lord Houghton The Violet invited my kiss Joseph Skipsey There is no summer ere the swallows come. F. W. Bourdillon Three fishers went sailing away to the West Charles Kingsley To sea, to sea! the calm is o’er Thomas Lovell Beddoes Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud! Alfred Tennyson Two doves upon the selfsame branch Christina G.

Rossetti Under the lindens lately sat Walter Savage Landor Wait but a little while Norman Gale We have loiter’d and laugh’d in the flowery croft Frederick Locker-Lampson We heard it calling, clear and low Frederick Locker-Lampson What is the meaning of the song Charles Mackay “What will you do, love, when I am going” Samuel Lover When a warm and scented steam George Walter Thornbury When along the light ripple the far serenade Lord Houghton When another’s voice thou hearest Lady Dufferin When I am dead, my dearest Christina G. Rossetti When I was young, I said to Sorrow Aubrey de Vere When Spring casts all her swallows forth George Walter Thornbury When the snow begins to feather Lord de Tabley Who is the baby, that doth lie Thomas Lovell Beddoes Winds to-day are large and free Michael Field Woo thy lass while May is here Lord de Tabley Their songs wake singing echoes in my land. Christina Rossetti. The writer of prose, by intelligence taught, Says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought. Frederick Locker-Lampson.

No species of poetry is more ancient than the lyrical, and yet none shows so little sign of having outlived the requirements of human passion. The world may grow tired of epics and of tragedies, but each generation, as it sees the hawthorns blossom and the freshness of girlhood expand, xxiv is seized with a pang which nothing but the spasm of verse will relieve. Each youth imagines that spring-tide and love are wonders which he is the first of human beings to appreciate, and he burns to alleviate his emotion in rhyme. Historians exaggerate, perhaps, the function of music in awakening and guiding the exercise of lyrical poetry. The lyric exists, they tell us, as an accompaniment to the lyre; and without the mechanical harmony the spoken song is an artifice. Quite as plausibly might it be avowed that music was but added to verse to concentrate and emphasize its rapture, to add poignancy and volume to its expression. But the truth is that these two arts, though sometimes happily allied, are, and always have been, independent.

When verse has been innocent enough to lean on music, we may be likely to find that music also has been of the simplest order, and that the pair of them, like two delicious children, have tottered and swayed together down the flowery meadows of experience. When either poetry or music is adult, the presence of each is a distraction xxv to the other, and each prefers, in the elaborate ages, to stand alone, since the mystery of the one confounds the complexity of the other. Most poets hate music; few musicians comprehend the nature of poetry; and the combination of these arts has probably, in all ages, been contrived, not for the satisfaction of artists, but for the convenience of their public. This divorce between poetry and music has been more frankly accepted in the present century than ever before, and is nowadays scarcely opposed in serious criticism. If music were a necessary ornament of lyrical verse, the latter would nowadays scarcely exist; but we hear less and less of the poets devotion (save in a purely conventional sense) to the lute and the pipe. What we call the Victorian lyric is absolutely independent of any such aid.

It may be that certain songs of Tennyson and Christina Rossetti have been with great popularity “set,” as it is called, “to music.” So far as the latter is in itself successful, it stultifies the former; and we admit at last that the idea of one art aiding another in this xxvi combination is absolutely fictitious. The beauty—even the beauty of sound—conveyed by the ear in such lyrics as “Break, break, break,” or “When I am dead, my dearest,” is obscured, is exchanged for another and a rival species of beauty, by the most exquisite musical setting that a composer can invent. The age which has been the first to accept this condition, then, should be rich in frankly lyrical poetry; and this we find to be the case with the Victorian period. At no time has a greater mass of this species of verse been produced, not even in the combined Elizabethan and Jacobean age. But when we come to consider the quality of this later harvest of song, we observe in it a far less homogeneous character.

We can take a piece of verse, and decide at sight that it must be Elizabethan, or of the age of the Pléiade in France, or of a particular period in Italy. Even an ode of our own eighteenth century is hardly to be confounded with a fragment from any other school. The great Georgian age introduced a wide variety into English poetry; and yet we have but to examine the xxvii selected jewels strung into so exquisite a carcanet by Mr. Palgrave in his “Golden Treasury” to notice with surprise how close a family likeness exists between the contributions of Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats, and Byron. The distinctions of style, of course, are very great; but the general character of the diction, the imagery, even of the rhythm, is more or less identical. The stamp of the same age is upon them,—they are hall-marked 1820. It is perhaps too early to decide that this will never be the case with the Victorian lyrics. While we live in an age we see the distinction of its parts, rather than their co-relation.

It is said that the Japanese Government once sent over a Commission to report upon the art of Europe; and that, having visited the exhibitions of London, Paris, Florence, and Berlin, the Commissioners confessed that the works of the European painters all looked so exactly alike that it was difficult to distinguish one from another. The Japanese eye, trained in absolutely opposed conventions, could not tell the difference between a Watts and a Fortuny, a Théodore Rousseau xxviii and a Henry Moore. So it is quite possible, it is even probable, that future critics may see a close similarity where we see nothing but divergence between the various productions of the Victorian age. Yet we can judge but what we discern; and certainly to the critical eye to-day it is the absence of a central tendency, the chaotic cultivation of all contrivable varieties of style, which most strikingly seems to distinguish the times we live in. We use the word “Victorian” in literature to distinguish what was written after the decline of that age of which Walter Scott, Coleridge, and Wordsworth were the survivors.

It is well to recollect, however, that Tennyson, who is the Victorian writer par excellence, had published the most individual and characteristic of his lyrics long before the Queen ascended the throne, and that Elizabeth Barrett, Henry Taylor, William Barnes, and others were by this date of mature age. It is difficult to remind ourselves, who have lived in the radiance of that august figure, that some of the most beautiful of Tennyson’s xxix lyrics, such as “Mariana” and “The Dying Swan” are now separated from us by as long a period of years as divided them from Dr. Johnson and the author of “Night Thoughts.” The reflection is of value only as warning us of the extraordinary length of the epoch we still call “Victorian.” It covers, not a mere generation, but much more than half a century. During this length of time a complete revolution in literary taste might have been expected to take place. This has not occurred, and the cause may very well be the extreme license permitted to the poets to adopt whatever style they pleased.

Where all the doors stand wide open, there is no object in escaping; where there is but one door, and that one barred, it is human nature to fret for some violent means of evasion. How divine have been the methods of the Victorian lyrists may easily be exemplified:— “Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid, Lead we not here a jolly life Betwixt the shine and shade? xxx “Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife To tongue of neither wife nor maid, Thou wagg’st, but I am worn with strife, And feel like flowers that fade.” That is a masterpiece, but so is this:— “Nay, but you who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, —So fair, see, ere I let it fall? “Because, you spend your lives in praisings, To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?

Above this tress, and this I touch, But cannot praise, I love so much!” And so is this:— “Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. xxxi “This be the verse yon grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.” But who would believe that the writers of these were contemporaries? If we examine more closely the forms which lyric poetry has taken since 1830, we shall find that certain influences at work in the minds of our leading writers have led to the widest divergence in the character of lyrical verse. It will be well, perhaps, to consider in turn the leading classes of that work. It was not to be expected that in an age of such complexity and self-consciousness as ours, the pure song, the simple trill of bird-like melody, should often or prominently be heard. As civilization spreads, it ceases to be possible, or at least it becomes less and less usual, that simple emotion should express itself with absolute naïveté.

Perhaps Burns was the latest poet in these islands whose passion warbled forth in perfectly artless strains; and he had the advantage of using a dialect still unsubdued and xxxii unvulgarized. Artlessness nowadays must be the result of the most exquisitely finished art; if not, it is apt to be insipid, if not positively squalid and fusty. The obvious uses of simple words have been exhausted; we cannot, save by infinite pains and the exercise of a happy genius, recover the old spontaneous air, the effect of an inevitable arrangement of the only possible words. This beautiful direct simplicity, however, was not infrequently secured by Tennyson, and scarcely less often by Christina Rossetti, both of whom have left behind them jets of pure emotional melody which compare to advantage with the most perfect specimens of Greek and Elizabethan song. Tennyson did not very often essay this class of writing, but when he did, he rarely failed; his songs combine, with extreme naturalness and something of a familiar sweetness, a felicity of workmanship hardly to be excelled.

In her best songs, Miss Rossetti is scarcely, if at all, his inferior; but her judgment was far less sure, and she was more ready to look with complacency on her failures. The songs of Mr. Aubrey de xxxiii Vere are not well enough known; they are sometimes singularly charming. Other poets have once or twice succeeded in catching this clear natural treble,—the living linnet once captured in the elm, as Tusitala puts it; but this has not been a gift largely enjoyed by our Victorian poets. The richer and more elaborate forms of lyric, on the contrary, have exactly suited this curious and learned age of ours. The species of verse which, originally Italian or French, have now so abundantly and so admirably been practised in England that we can no longer think of them as exotic, having found so many exponents in the Victorian period that they are pre-eminently characteristic of it. “Scorn not the Sonnet,” said Wordsworth to his contemporaries; but the lesson has not been needed in the second half of the century.

The sonnet is the most solid and unsingable of the sections of lyrical poetry; it is difficult to think of it as chanted to a musical accompaniment. It is used with great distinction by writers to whom skill in the lighter divisions xxxiv of poetry has been denied, and there are poets, such as Bowles and Charles Tennyson-Turner, who live by their sonnets alone. The practice of the sonnet has been so extended that all sense of monotony has been lost. A sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning differs from one by D. G. Rossetti or by Matthew Arnold to such excess as to make it difficult for us to realize that the form in each case is absolutely identical. With the sonnet might be mentioned the lighter forms of elaborate exotic verse; but to these a word shall be given later on. More closely allied to the sonnet are those rich and somewhat fantastic stanza-measures in which Rossetti delighted. Those in which Keats and the Italians have each their part have been greatly used by the Victorian poets.

They lend themselves to a melancholy magnificence, to pomp of movement and gorgeousness of color; the very sight of them gives the page the look of an ancient blazoned window. Poems of this class are “The Stream’s Secret” and the choruses in “Love is enough.” They satisfy the appetite of our time for subtle and xxxv vague analysis of emotion, for what appeals to the spirit through the senses; but here, again, in different hands, the “thing,” the metrical instrument, takes wholly diverse characters, and we seek in vain for a formula that can include Robert Browning and Gabriel Rossetti, William Barnes and Arthur Hugh Clough. From this highly elaborated and extended species of lyric the transition is easy to the Ode. In the Victorian age, the ode, in its full Pindaric sense, has not been very frequently used. We have specimens by Mr. Swinburne in which the Dorian laws are closely adhered to. But the ode, in a more or less irregular form, whether pæan or threnody, has been the instrument of several of our leading lyrists. The genius of Mr.

Swinburne, even to a greater degree than that of Shelley, is essentially dithyrambic, and is never happier than when it spreads its wings as wide as those of the wild swan, and soars upon the very breast of tempest. In these flights Mr. Swinburne attains to a volume of sonorous melody such as no other poet, perhaps, of the world xxxvi has reached, and we may say to him, as he has shouted to the Mater Triumphalis:— “Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy pæan, Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to vale, With wind-notes as of eagles Æschylean, And Sappho singing in the nightingale.” Nothing could mark more picturesquely the wide diversity permitted in Victorian lyric than to turn from the sonorous and tumultuous odes of Mr. Swinburne to those of Mr. Patmore, in which stateliness of contemplation and a peculiar austerity of tenderness find their expression in odes of iambic cadence, the melody of which depends, not in their headlong torrent of sound, but in the cunning variation of catalectic pause.

A similar form has been adopted by Lord De Tabley for many of his gorgeous studies of antique myth, and by Tennyson for his “Death of the Duke of Wellington.” It is an error to call these iambic odes “irregular,” although they do not follow the classic rules with strophe, antistrophe, and epode. The enchanting “I have led her home,” in xxxvii “Maud,” is an example of this kind of lyric at its highest point of perfection. A branch of lyrical poetry which has been very widely cultivated in the Victorian age is the philosophical, or gnomic, in which a serious chain of thought, often illustrated by complex and various imagery, is held in a casket of melodious verse, elaborately rhymed. Matthew Arnold was a master of this kind of poetry, which takes its form, through Wordsworth, from the solemn and so-called “metaphysical” writers of the seventeenth century. We class this interesting and abundant section of verse with the lyrical, because we know not by what other name to describe it; yet it has obviously as little as possible of the singing ecstasy about it.

It neither pours its heart out in a rapture, nor wails forth its despair. It has as little of the nightingale’s rich melancholy as of the lark’s delirium. It hardly sings, but, with infinite decorum and sobriety, speaks its melodious message to mankind. This sort of philosophical poetry is really critical; its function is to analyze and describe; and it approaches, xxxviii save for the enchantment of its form, nearer to prose than do the other sections of the art. It is, however, just this species of poetry which has particularly appealed to the age in which we live; and how naturally it does so may be seen in the welcome extended to the polished and serene compositions of Mr. William Watson. Almost a creation, or at least a complete conquest, of the Victorian age is the humorous lyric in its more delicate developments. If the past can point to Prior and to Praed, we can boast, in their various departments, of Calverly, of Locker-Lampson, of Mr. Andrew Lang, of Mr. W. S. Gilbert.

The comic muse, indeed, has marvellously extended her blandishments during the last two generations, and has discovered methods of trivial elegance which were quite unknown to our forefathers. Here must certainly be said a word in favor of those French forms of verse, all essentially lyrical, such as the ballad, the rondel, the triolet, which have been used so abundantly as to become quite a xxxix feature in our lighter literature. These are not, or are but rarely, fitted to bear the burden of high emotion; but their precision, and the deftness which their use demands fit them exceedingly well for the more distinguished kind of persiflage. No one has kept these delicate butterflies in flight with the agile movement of his fan so admirably as Mr. Austin Dobson, that neatest of magicians. Those who write hastily of Victorian lyrical poetry are apt to find fault with its lack of spontaneity. It is true that we cannot pretend to discover on a greensward so often crossed and re-crossed as the poetic language of England many morning dewdrops still glistening on the grasses. We have to pay the penalty of our experience in a certain lack of innocence.

The artless graces of a child seem mincing affectations in a grown-up woman. But the poetry of this age has amply made up for any lack of innocence by its sumptuous fulness, its variety, its magnificent accomplishment, its felicitous response to a multitude of moods and apprehensions. xl It has struck out no new field for itself; it still remains where the romantic revolution of 1798 placed it; its aims are not other than were those of Coleridge and of Keats. But within that defined sphere it has developed a surprising activity. It has occupied the attention and become the facile instrument of men of the greatest genius, writers of whom any age and any language might be proud. It has been tender and fiery, severe and voluminous, gorgeous and marmoreal, in turns. It has translated into words feelings so subtle, so transitory, moods so fragile and intangible, that the rough hand of prose would but have crushed them. And this, surely, indicates the great gift of Victorian lyrical poetry to the race.

During a time of extreme mental and moral restlessness, a time of speculation and evolution, when all illusions are tested, all conventions overthrown, when the harder elements of life have been brought violently to the front, and where there is a temptation for the emancipated mind roughly to reject what is not material and obvious, this art has preserved intact the xli lovelier delusions of the spirit, all that is vague and incorporeal and illusory. So that for Victorian Lyric generally no better final definition can be given than is supplied by Mr. Robert Bridges in a little poem of incomparable beauty, which may fitly bring this essay to a close:— “I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents

Question: """The splendour falls on castle walls/And snowy summits old story"" is the beginning of a poem by whom?"
Answer: LORD TENNYSON